


We Are Their Darkness (They Are Our Stars)

by shan_love



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Crossover, Depression, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Nazis, Peggy & Carm are BAMF BFF's, Suicidal Thoughts, World War II, actual bisexual Peggy Carter, actual useless lesbian Carmilla Karnstein
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 13:50:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 14,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3770590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shan_love/pseuds/shan_love
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Friends are often found in the most extraordinary of places and, she supposes, a bombsite does, indeed, fit the bill. </p><p><i>Agent Carter</i> / <i>Carmilla</i> Crossover. Eventual Cartinelli & Hollstein. </p><p>On <b>TEMPORARY HIATUS</b> until further notice. Rest assured, Peggy and Carmilla will be back as soon as my internet situation is resolved! Thank you so much for your patience!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Playing Hero

**Author's Note:**

> This is hugely influenced/inspired by tumblr user [toodrunktofindaurl](http://toodrunktofindaurl.tumblr.com/)'s crossover comics, which you can find [here](http://toodrunktofindaurl.tumblr.com/post/116420955721/peggy-carter-and-carmilla-karnstein-met-each-other) and [here](http://toodrunktofindaurl.tumblr.com/post/116438122581/peggy-and-carmilla-gal-pals-during-the-war). Hopefully she'll make more :D  
>   
> Obviously, I own nothing except the, hopefully, well-chosen words below. Enjoy!

_"Friendship at first sight, like love at first sight, is said to be the only truth."_ **~Herman Melville**

* * *

**_Location: [Redacted] - Circa November, 1942_ **

She’s on the frontlines and yet not, a soldier but not quite a warrior, and, tonight, Peggy Carter feels the distinction itching in every vein. Her duties for the day are finished, or, rather, as finished as they will be tonight, but her mind is restless still, as it often is when Steve’s away and she’s not been ‘permitted’ to stand at his side. So, her feet do what her mind cannot; they leave the familiar comfort of the temporary barracks behind and lead her down a series of darkened streets until she finds herself skirting the site of the last battle, her sensible flats sinking into the rain and blood-soaked mud with every step.

Here, no more than a week ago, the war had raged in earnest; at least she no longer has to wonder why she’d ran into almost no one, including fellow soldiers, during her impromptu stroll, not when the metallic stench of blood, of death, still lingers in the air like a most unwelcome guest.

Her gaze lingers too, here and there, taking in the massive holes littering the once smooth terrain and, for what must be the thousandth time since the war began, she wonders how anyone, any _place_ , will recover from this wanton devastation.

Her less than cheery musings are cut short, however, when the sound of ragged breathing makes her start, her hand flying to the gun she has belted on her hip. Identifying the sound, she whips around, body shifting into a fighting stance reflexively, only for her breath to catch at the sight that meets her eyes.

There’s a girl in one of the craters.

A girl covered in blood.

It could be a trap, she thinks, casting her eyes warily around as she leans ever-so-slightly forward – it wouldn’t be the first time the enemy had used such underhanded tactics – but Peggy’s always been observant, always been _careful_ , and, after all the times they’ve saved her, she trusts her instincts implicitly. Still…underestimating a woman is not something she’ll never be guilty of, not when she so despises being the victim of such things, and she’s almost viscerally aware of how cool the metal of her gun is beneath her fingertips. Of the fact that the girl, a dark, slip of a thing, is all but _drenched_ in blood that could, very easily, belong to someone else.

But Peggy has spent too much time on the frontlines to be truly thrown by such things and, so, like the well-trained military officer she is, she clears her throat and, in a soft voice that she’s been taught breeds trust, she says, “Hello? Hello, can you hear me?”

She receives no answer; in fact, her words illicit no reaction at all and she frowns, wondering vaguely if the girl is shell-shocked or perhaps been deafened, temporarily or otherwise, by the battle. The Allied forces had evacuated most of the nearby town before the initial wave had struck but there had only been so much time and, as in many battles, there had been casualties, some of them civilian.

So she tries again, and again, and yet, ten minutes later, she’s gotten nothing for her efforts besides a shiver that seems to get some sort of sick thrill out of chasing its tail up and down her spine.

She’s all but decided to radio headquarters for backup when the girl notices her at last. Eyes as dark as the starless sky above meet her own, and, for one of the first times in her life, Peggy feels her resolve falter as the girl shrinks into what little shadow her literal hole in the ground has to offer.

This is not some well-trained assassin or high-risk foreign operative.

This, she thinks as she kneels in the grime and holds out her hand, is not the enemy.

This, she knows as a pale, trembling, and far too cold hand grasps her own, is a victim and Peggy has been offered the chance to play the role for which she is so often overlooked: the saviour.

The hero.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand that's chapter one!  
> I hope you're ready for an adventure, guys & gals, because it only gets better from here :)
> 
> ( **Note:** Before anyone asks, yes, I _did_ have to muck with a timeline a little to make everything work but, really, it isn't nearly as damaged as it could be. I bent, I didn't break, promise!)


	2. Parlez-vous français?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to user FemslashTrash13 for some French corrections!

Even with a blanket wrapped around her thin shoulders, the girl still shivers, shrinking almost unconsciously into the shadows until Peggy’s sure she might disappear right into them, those pale hands shaking as she grips tightly to the chipped teacup she’d only just gotten her to take.

The room she’s procured for the night is small, even by her strict military standards, and sparsely furnished but, really, all she needs is running water and a bed for the girl to collapse in once the shock of whatever horrors she’s witnessed catches up with her.

Peggy had initially planned on taking the girl to the nearest infirmary for an exam and treatment, if necessary, but something about her, the odd stiffness of her limbs or the indefinable gleam in dark eyes, had told her that was _not_ the best course of action. And, so, with no other options to speak of, she’d steered them in a different direction entirely, which was how she found herself in one of the few remaining civilian-approved zones in the area, cleaning blood-transfer off her hands.

With said hands preoccupied with the muscle memory of cleanliness, she watches her young charge, ever mindful of the way she endlessly, almost restlessly, shifts in place, as if she’s not used to having the space to do so. Her legs, long and lean, repeatedly stretch to their limits before curling back, and with every movement something like pain cuts through her blank expression.

Still, despite both that _and_ the copious amount of blood she wears, Peggy can discern no visible wounds on her person. In fact, even with the considerable amount of training she’s endured and experience she’s gleaned, she finds herself strangely unable to discern anything about the girl at all.

“What’s your name?” she asks, for what must be the tenth time since she all but led the girl inside, almost thirty minutes ago, now.

But, just like at the bomb site, she receives no real reaction to speak of and, frankly, Peggy considers herself the owner of many fine traits but not one amongst them is an overabundance of patience.

This girl is more than she seems and, though she stands by her gut feeling that she isn’t the enemy, that doesn’t mean she isn’t _dangerous_. Which is how she, once again, finds herself on the verge of radioing for assistance when it strikes her, quite suddenly, that perhaps it isn’t a lack of cooperation on the girls part but a lack of _understanding_ that prevents her from answering.

Rolling her eyes and cursing herself internally, because, _really_ Peggy, only an _American_ would assume that everybody everywhere speaks the Queen’s English, she clears her throat, noting that the girl flinches slightly at the sound before glancing at her from the corner of her eye and relaxing back into her seat.  

With no outwardly identifying marks to speak of, she has no way to know what language the girl will respond to so, with English eliminated, at least for the moment, she decides to start with the most likely choice and work her way down. Her knowledge of Austro-Bavarian is sporadic, at best, and, while she _is_ fluent in German, it’s become something of an ill-omen since the war began and the poor girl is _clearly_ traumatized; the last thing she wasn’t to do is agitate her further.

Which is why, after a moment of quiet deliberation, where she makes note of the girls’ condition and their current locale, she makes up her mind and says, for what she hopes is the last time, “ _Je m'appelle _ Peggy Carter _._ _Quel_ _est le vôtre_?”

The girl visibly perks up at the sound, meeting her gaze openly for the first time since she’d pulled her from the crater, her own eyes shining behind a web of matted, dark hair.

She licks her lips then and, though Peggy herself can’t help but grimace slightly, if _she_ is at all troubled by the blood that comes away on her tongue, she gives no indication of it. “ _M_ -” she coughs, the sound thick like she’s still in the process of recovering from a recent bout of pneumonia, and clears her throat. “ _Je m'appelle_ Mircalla,” she says and Peggy bites back a sigh of relief at finally having received an answer, “Mircalla Karnstein,”

It is a harsh, unusual name, undoubtedly of Austrian, and thus, Germanic descent, by the sound, but she can’t deny that the girls French is flawless, if a little too…formal, her pronunciation almost archaic. “ _Parlez-vous anglais_?” she asks, her curiosity peaked.

She – _Mircalla_ – pauses for a long moment, her brow furrowing as though she doesn’t understand the question. Peggy nearly asks it again when she says, “A…little,” she clears her throat again and, when she continues, she grows quieter with every word, “It has been…a long time…since I used it last,”

Softly spoken or not, like her French, Mircalla’s English feels oddly formal and her pronunciation is more obviously coloured by an accent Peggy can’t quite place, a dialect she’s never heard before.

Still, pleased to have made progress, she says, her own unaccented French lilting, “ _Well,_ _to try and reduce our chances of misunderstanding, we’ll stick with French then, alright_?”

Mircalla nods almost imperiously, a haughty little gesture that seems at odds with her bedraggled state, and looks over at her with wide – but not innocent – eyes. “ _If it pleases you_ , _Miss_ Carter,”

Peggy feels her own eyes narrow slightly at the underlying challenge the girls’ words carry. It’s almost like she’s playing with her, _testing_ her, but, if her unguarded expression is anything to go by, it isn’t meant to be subversive. Rather, the tone seems almost…habitual.

But the night isn’t getting any younger and she still has to return to base and try her luck at claiming at least a _few_ hours of rest, so, against her better judgment, she decides to put her curiosities aside, if only for the moment. “ _First things first, then_ ,” she begins, feeling more than seeing the girls eyes on her as she rises, “ _I think it’s time we get you cleaned up,”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...aaand there's chapter 2!  
>  I'm aiming for weekly updates so look for chapter 3 next Saturday!


	3. End Of The Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh! I'm so sorry for the delay (my Friday plans wound up stretching into Saturday night/very early Sunday morning plans and I was nowhere near my laptop)
> 
> But the wait is over! Here's chapter 3!

After a brief, although strangely endearing, reaction to the plumbing, Mircalla settles herself in the bath while Peggy goes about the chore of ridding the chair – not to mention the wall she’d been resting against– of grime, exchanging a surprisingly snappy series of questions and quips through the washroom door while she does.

During the half hour they have a door between them, though they exchange more than their fair share of words, Peggy learns surprisingly little about her unexpected companion. For every pointed question she asks, she receives a pointlessly meandering response or a question of her own, no doubt meant to throw her off track, in return. It’s a technique she knows all too well, having utilized it herself on more than one occasion, but Mircalla’s responses don’t seem rehearsed so much as…carefully chosen. Like she’s afraid of saying the wrong thing rather than saying too much and, though it is a subtle difference, it is a difference nonetheless, and Peggy finds herself relaxing, if only a little, as she finishes her busy work and resumes her seat, patiently waiting for the girl to emerge.

When she finally does, granting Peggy her first unobstructed view in the process, she is genuinely surprised to discover that the girl, and she _is_ a girl – no more than eighteen, if she were to hazard a guess – is quite fetching. With hair that pools at her ankles like an elegant, inky-black waterfall and skin as pale and unblemished as freshly fallen snow, if she hadn’t seen it herself, she wouldn’t have believed the girl had ever set foot within a hundred kilometers of a warzone, let alone been found cowering inside a crater.

And, she’s quick to note, Mircalla doesn’t move like a common country girl. There’s a careless grace to her movements, a once learned and now almost instinctual carefulness, that makes Peggy more wary than anything she has or hasn’t said.

As if reading her mind, the raven-haired girl pauses midstride and looks over at her, dark gaze as unreadable as it was in the field, and Peggy’s fingers ghost over the butt of her pistol, though she silently hopes she won’t have to use it.

“ _Are you going to kill me_?” she asks quietly, her eyes flickering from her face to her weapon and back again.

“ _Not unless you give me a reason too_ ,”

Mircalla studies her for a long moment, then, and there’s something undeniably dangerous flashing in those dark eyes that has Peggy all but holding her breath, her fingers tightening around her gun. But then, as quickly as it came, the moment passes and the girl nods, almost like she’d weighed her words and found them trustworthy, before resuming her journey to the small bed.

Once there, she disrobes with the least amount of modesty Peggy has _ever_ seen before slipping the provided nightdress over her head and diligently un-tucking all four corners of the threadbare blanket and settling herself beneath it. Other than the sounds of her rearranging herself beneath the covers, the room is silent.

She briefly considers saying something else, she has so many, too many, unanswered questions, but she can’t deny the girls is exhausted and needs to rest – there’s no telling what she’s been through the past few days – and, so, in the end, she says nothing. Nodding to herself as she rises, smoothing the wrinkles from her skirt automatically as she does; they can certainly continue their…exchange tomorrow and, perhaps, if she’s terribly lucky, a good night’s sleep will make Mircalla a bit more cooperative.

Decision made, her thoughts hedge towards the preparations she’ll have to make; Mircalla has needs, as all humans do. Clothing, food, possibly even transportation to one of the other temporary safe zones, depending on whether or not Peggy’s able to authenticate her story, once she manages to coax it out of her. All these things, and a thousand more like them, are her responsibility, now, as is the girl to whom they are all connected.

It’s a lot to ask but nothing she hasn’t done before and certainly nothing she cannot handle. Or, at least, that’s what she tells herself as she starts for the door.

“ _It would not work, you know_ ,”

The words, soft spoken though they are, almost make her jump; she’d thought the girl asleep the moment her head had met the pillow. Luckily her carefully honed countenance gives nothing away even as she stills, her fingers pausing on the knob mid-turn. “ _What wouldn’t work_?”

“ _Your firearm_ ,” Mircalla says softly, “ _It would not kill me_ ,”

“ _Oh_?” she asks, her tone guarded despite her best attempts at neutrality, “ _And why is that_?”

When she receives no answer, she turns her eyes to the bed only to find the girl asleep at last, her breathing deep and even and, without another word, Peggy slips through the door and into the night.

Before she returns to headquarters, however, she does make a point to stop and pay for the room for rest of the week.

Call it a hunch, but she has the feeling Mircalla won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.


	4. The Depth Of Winter

As the footsteps of her unlikely rescuer fade into the night, Mircalla slides from the bed and moves to the corner closest the window. There, she sits, drawing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them as her eyes lift to caress the heavens like a long-lost lover. Truthfully, she’d never appreciated the stars before – the modest beauty their scattered pinpricks lent to the midnight blue of the sky had seemed so plain when compared with the lavish lifestyle _maman_ provided – and what an arrogant fool she’d been, to think anything on earth could equal, let alone surpass, the simple grandeur of their light.

Simply put, she’s more comfortable here – after so long in the coffin, the bed is too large and too soft, the covers too stifling – and the knowledge that, at any time, she can look up and see the sky makes it easier to breath. Not that she _needs_ to breath, per say, but it _is_ nice to have the option.

It’s starting to sink in, now, that she’s out. That she’s free. And with that realization comes a wave of fear so intense the accompanying rush of adrenaline sets her limbs to shaking. Because, if she’s free, then why is she still _here_? She has to leave; she has to _run_. It isn’t safe here; it isn’t safe _anywhere_ but certainly not here, not in Styria, not so close to _maman_ … _Maman_. Mircalla swallows hard even as a quiet whimper pulls itself from her throat without her consent. She has to know she’s free; _maman_ knows everything. And if she finds her, may God have mercy, because _she_ will not hesitate to return her to the darkness…

She shudders, pressing herself against the wall, so close to the shadows that she almost feels like one of them. After seventy years, perhaps that’s exactly what she is. Perhaps it’s all she ever was…

Mircalla shakes her head, pressing her palms to her closed lids and taking the first in a series of slow, deep breaths. Thoughts like those are the coffins influence, she knows, and she will _not_ give into them. She refuses to allow the darkness to consume what’s left of her; it has already taken more than its fair share.

Still, there is a part of her, one that grew strong while she raged and despaired and faded into the dark, that whispers promises of peace, of the only freedom she knows can _never_ be taken away, and she’s spent too long trapped in the underearth to ignore them completely. (She can’t help but think that, even if she is one day free of _maman_ , she’ll never be free of _them_.)

The Carter woman is a soldier of some kind – it’s clear in the way she carries herself, the silence of her steps, the confidence of her gaze – perhaps she’ll have the knowledge, the skills, required to put her down like the…like the _monster_ she is, to end the war she’s been waging since the moment the coffin was sealed. If she tells her what she is, what she’s done…she’s too honorable to just step aside. She’ll condemn her, attack her, kill her, maybe. Mircalla would make it easy; she doesn’t think she has the heart to fight back.

Because, while she’s grateful, desperately, eternally grateful, to be free she’s so very, very tired of fighting, of forcing herself to remember what the will to live feels like. She’d never had this problem before the dark, before she met… _her_.

A flash of golden hair and eyes the color of the noonday sky fills her eyes with tears and she squeezes them shut until the image fades from the forefront of her mind. It doesn’t go far, she fears it never will, but she looses a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding and she counts that as a victory, no matter how hollow.

To say the least, her thoughts are restless, and the sun is high by the time she finally calms them enough to answer the call of slumber. She makes no move to close the curtains, though; let the light burn her if it must, perhaps it will help to cleanse the darkness from her soul.

Still, even as she slips into unconsciousness, she can’t help but wonder if that’s possible. Just how much of herself did she leave in that coffin? How much darkness did she bring in its place?

And is it worth the effort to try and salvage what little remains?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand so ends the first chapter from Carmilla's POV!  
> Was it worth waiting for?
> 
> Also, the title of this chapter is inspired by a quote that I may or may not make an appearance later on :)


	5. More Than She Seems

Despite the war waging only a few paltry kilometers away, her workload the following day is blessedly light, something for which Peggy, in her sleep-deprived state, is profoundly, albeit silently, grateful for. It wasn’t that she hadn’t been conditioned to withstand the demands of war, she has, but her regular six hours had been severely cut into by thoughts surrounding the mysterious Mircalla Karnstein.

Something about the girl was off and yet, at the same time, felt so very familiar that she can almost taste the answer on the tip of her tongue. And, if there was one thing Peggy loves, it’s solving a mystery, a predilection that, thankfully, lends itself to her work far more often than it distracts her from it.

She longs for a second opinion, a second set of eyes, wishing for what must be the hundredth time in as many days that Steve was here because he would understand; she knows he would. He always does. But the others? No doubt they’d mark the girl as a threat and throw her in a cell somewhere until the war was over and they had the time to look into the matter ‘thoroughly’. Which was why, against her better judgment – and no small amount of training – she’d told no one of her midnight encounter.

It’s also why, when she retires for the evening, she finds herself not relaxing in her private quarters but, rather, half-way across town, quietly knocking on the door to Mircalla’s room before letting herself inside when no invitation was extended.

Pushing the door wide and mentally preparing herself for what would, no doubt, be the start of an unbearably humiliating wild goose chase, she is unable to deny her surprise when she spots Mircalla, almost immediately, curled up beside the small window, still clothed in nothing but the thin nightdress she’d procured the previous night.

“ _Good evening, Miss_ Karnstein,” she says, unbuttoning her jacket before turning to hang it up on the hook beside the door.

“ _Miss_ Carter,” she replies and Peggy doesn’t even have to look at her to know she still hasn’t taken her eyes from the window.

“It’s _lieutenant, actually_ ,” she corrects automatically, only to stiffen a moment later as her words sink in. She hadn’t mentioned anything to Mircalla the day before to indicate she held a place within the military. It had been a pointed calculation on her part, to aid in her determining whether or not the girl had a more sinister purpose; appearing as she had, all but in the middle of recently claimed Allied territory, was suspicious in no small way.

Still, limited though their time together has been, she finds she has little doubt that the girl is bright enough to have already figured her out. And, honestly, if not part of the armed forces, for what purpose would she be armed?

Prudent or not, the correction proves interesting enough to draw her attention from the view, dark eyes resting briefly on Peggy’s face before taking in her uniform with quiet reserve. And, if she hadn’t been expecting it, she might not have noticed the way they lingered, almost pointedly, on her sidearm. “ _I did not know women could join the army_ ,” she says after a moment.

She raises her shoulders in an easy shrug; now _this_ is a reaction she knows how to handle – she’s certainly had more than her fair share of experience with it. “ _It’s uncommon but not entirely unheard of_ ,” she says, “ _There are many opportunities, if one is willing to work for them_ ,”

Mircalla nods and Peggy would swear she could almost see her filing the information away for future consideration. “ _Have you come to ask me more questions_?” she asks then and, in a way that is beginning to feel almost frighteningly familiar, Peggy finds herself, once again, swallowing surprise directly inspired by the girls most uncommon bluntness.

In this instance, at least, she decides to reply in kind. “ _Yes_ ,” she says, “ _Do you have a problem with that_?”

She shrugs, an effortlessly graceful thing that would’ve set Peggy’s etiquette teachers at St. Martin’s to drooling, “ _No_ ,” she says, returning her eyes to the window, “ _But I can all but guarantee you will dislike my answers_ ,”

“ _No more evasive maneuvers, then_?” she asks, a healthy dose of skepticism colouring her words, “ _And what is it, exactly, that prompted this sudden change of heart_?”

Mircalla sighs then, a sound so lifeless, so bone weary, that it belied her youth. “ _I’m tired, Miss_ Carter,” she says, fixing her with wet, dark eyes that are old, so old, too old, for such a young face.

Wordlessly, Peggy lifts the only other chair the room has to offer and settles it against the wall, across from Mircalla’s own. “ _May I sit_?” she asks and, only when the girl nods, does she do so, fixing her with an inscrutable stare as she settles onto the uncomfortable seat. “ _I get the feeling you want to tell me something_ ,”

Her gaze drifts to the window and lingers there for a long, quiet moment, as though she’s afraid the stars won’t be waiting for her when she looks back, before she turns and faces her head on. “ _What do you think me to be_?”

Putting the odd phrasing aside, the question itself is…odd, not to mention slightly off-putting, but Peggy has always enjoyed a good riddle. “ _A young woman_ ,” she begins simply, “ _Who is far more than she appears_ ,”

Mircalla smiles, a soft, fragile thing that sits, trembling, on her lips for but an instant before it falls away, “ _What if I told you you were correct_?”

“ _Then I’d tell you that’s something I never tire of hearing_ ,” she quips. Because it’s easy; because the girl in front of her, no matter the secrets she harbors, doesn’t put her ill at ease, even if, perhaps, that is exactly what she _should_ do.

“ _What is the year_?”

This question, far more than the ones preceding it, throws her. The year? Is the girl daft? Is she mad? And yet, when she searches her face, she can find no hint of deceit, no flicker of madness or malcontent. These are things Peggy has been trained to search for, to see, but in her face, there is nothing to be found but sadness. Sadness…and longing though, for what, or perhaps, _who_ , she cannot say. “ _1942_ ,”

Mircalla frowns, dark brows drawn together so tightly they nearly touch, and throws a fleeting glance out the window. “ _It has been so long_ …”

“‘ _So long_ ’?” she echoes.

That same soft smile reappears as she says, in a voice as teasing as Peggy’s ever heard, “ _Seventy years is still a lifetime, yes_?”

“ _What would you know of seventy years_? _Of lifetimes? You can’t be a day over eighteen_ ,” she says, frowning slightly at Mircalla’s almost _wistful_ expression. And yet, the oddest thing about it is not its presence, per say, but, rather, how easily it sits on her young face, as though she’s worn it countless times before…

Her smile shifts, settling in an unreadable line, and her eyes flicker and flash like small, mahogany-hued flames. “ _If you have provided me the correct year_ ,” she begins, “ _Then I am two hundred and sixty two_ ,”

Peggy’s blood runs cold and her fingers skitter, almost reassuringly, across the butt of her pistol. Mircalla is a slip of a thing but she’s seen soldiers come back from the front with eyes made permanently wide in terror and she knows they, sometimes, have the strength of men twice, even three times, their own size. And, if the girl is indeed mad, there’s no telling what she might be capable of. She cannot forget, after all, the way she found her in that dark hole: shivering and covered in someone else’s blood.

“ _That’s not possible_ ,” she says evenly, not quite ready to condemn the girl to the madhouse just yet, “ _Humans don’t live that long; we can’t_ ,”

The line morphs into a wry smirk. “ _A convenient thing, then, that I am not human_ ,”

“ _If you aren’t human_ ,” she licks her lips and, once again, meets Mircalla’s eyes, “ _Then what are you_?”

She takes a slow breath and, for a moment, indecision shines clear on her face. “ _My kind has many names_ ,” she begins, “ _But the most common in my time…was ‘vampire’_ ,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhangers are fun, yes? :D
> 
> So I couldn't find any references to Peggy's actual military rank (and then, after I started thinking about it, I couldn't remember if she actually had one or not, since she was a woman and all) so I just went with lieutenant. [I probably could've taken the time to rewatch Captain America but I didn't, so, yeah.]


	6. A Tale As Old As Time

She blinks in open surprise because, really, out of all the possibilities she’d entertained, that particular…option had not been among them.  

“ _You’re a vampire_?” she deadpans, not really sure whether or not she believes her. The issue is not in believing whether or not such beings exist – Peggy knows from personal experience that they do – rather, it is in believing that the girl before her counts herself amongst their number.

She would, by no means, consider herself an authority on the subject – vampires were infrequent opponents, seen only on rare, and often auspicious, occasions – but she’s seen her fair share of the horrid, pale-skinned creatures since the war began. Enough to know they are fierce, bloodthirsty things that would sooner tear out a soldier’s throat than take him prisoner. Enough to realise that, if Mircalla is, in fact, telling the truth, than Peggy could very well meet her end in this anonymous little room, her trusty Walther PPK rendered as harmless as a bee sting even as it sits, fully loaded, on her hip.

And yet, despite, obviously, having known all of this long before she herself did, the girl made no attempt to harm or subdue her. In fact, from the moment they’d met, it seemed like she was more afraid of Peggy than the other way around. Or…was she, perhaps, not afraid _of_ her but of the pain _she_ could cause _her_?

Psychoanalysis had never been her speciality, not with men and certainly not with vampires, but it didn’t take an expert to see that, human or not, _vampire_ or not, Mircalla _was_ afraid of _something_ , though whether that something was her, herself, or something else altogether remained to be seen.

But all her musings would be rendered moot if the girl wasn’t who – or, more specifically, _what_ – she claimed to be and Peggy was tired of playing catch-up.

“ _Are you with the Germans_?” she demands, changing the subject.

Mircalla frowns over at her, her expression weary, guarded, even as she shakes her head. “ _I am with no one but_ _you_ ,”

“ _Are you fighting with the Germans_?” she asks again, rewording the question ever-so-slightly, “ _Whose side are you on_?”

“ _I am on no one’s side_ ,” she says and, despite all the evidence to the contrary, Peggy finds herself believing her.

But she isn’t sure yet, can’t be sure, and, so, the strangest interrogation she’s ever been a party to continues, “ _Then why are you here, Mircalla_?”

“ _I was…trapped. Imprisoned, here, many years ago_ ,” her eyes dart away but return almost immediately, as though she senses how important it is that Peggy believes her. “ _I thought I’d never be free again._ _But when the cannons_ -”

“ _Bombs_ ,” she corrects dryly.

“ _Bombs_ ,” Mircalla repeats, testing the word on her tongue. “ _When_ _they…fell? The earth shook and split apart. They freed me. I breathed fresh air for the first time in seventy years and it was…_ ” she trails off and the expression on her face is easily the closest thing Peggy’s ever seen to euphoria, _“God forgive me…but I know not the words to do it justice_ ,”

“ _And the blood you were covered in_? _Whose was it_?” she asks, straight to the point, as always. Steve, she thinks, she _knows_ , would not approve of her heavy-handed approach, especially now it’s clear that Mircalla is, indeed, _someone’s_ victim, but she stands by her choices even as the question makes the girl flinch.

For a long minute, she doesn’t answer. And, when she finally speaks, her words hang heavy with guilt. “ _When_ _I clawed my way out of the earth_ ,” she began, “ _There were men, everywhere. One of them, he grabbed me, shouted…something, I don’t know. It was so loud_ ,” she shakes her head, “ _I…I think, now, they were trying to help me_ ,”

Her dark head hangs in what can only be shame and Peggy doesn’t have to hear the rest to know what happened. “ _I killed them_ ,” she says after a moment, “ _Tore them apart, like a mon- like an animal._ _I tried to stop, I swear I tried, but my body…it would not listen. It had been so long, so long in the dark…_ ” her voice is entreating, almost desperately so, like she’s trying to make her understand, and it’s only then that Peggy realises the origins of that ‘odd’ gleam in her eyes: hunger, the likes of which she has never known.

“ _How many_?” she asks and, this time, her words are soft, even gentle, and just the right amount of compelling.

Mircalla shrugs. “ _A dozen? Less…or more? Numbers had no meaning. There was only fire and sound…and blood_ ,” she shakes her head - an attempt to clear her thoughts, perhaps? - and, for the first time in long minutes, she meets Peggy’s eyes. “ _Were they…were they friends of yours_?” she asks quietly, like she isn’t sure whether or not she wants the answer.

A less moral person would say yes or, at the very least, feign ignorance, to better exploit the girls obvious guilt, and then use any information about her victims as leverage for more information but Peggy Carter…is not one of them. “ _No,_ ”she says and she’d personally challenge _anyone_ to doubt the sincerity of the relief she sees shining in Mircalla’s eyes. “ _The Allied forces suffered minimal casualties and none were found with the wounds you would have…inflicted_ ,”

Peggy clears her throat, recapturing her attention, “ _Who were you? Before all this_ ,” she asks because, though it is almost painfully clear that Mircalla believes the tale she’s telling, _she_ is not yet convinced.

Dark eyes dance away, offering up yet another lingering glance to the sky before she says, “ _I was born in the winter of 1680, the fifth child and third daughter of the Count and Countess von Karnstein of Styria_ ,”

“ _You’re a countess_?” she asks easily, but her eyes are hard, locked as they are on Mircalla’s own, searching for any hint of deception, of hesitation. But there is none to be found.

“ _I would have been. Once_ ,” she shrugs and the movement is meant to seem easy, effortless, but it is a forced gesture and Peggy can see the moment her shoulders twitch beneath the weight of her supposed nonchalance. “ _Before I was killed. And then turned. And then, much, much later, entombed_ ,”

Mircalla looks at her then, _really_ looks at her; if she didn’t know better, she’d think she could see straight into her soul. “ _You don’t believe me_ ,” she says and Peggy notes that it’s not a question, merely a statement of fact.

“ _If our positions were reversed, would you believe me_?” she counters and, is it just her imagination, or is that approval she sees shining in her eyes?

She considers her silently for a moment more before she says, “ _I doubt it most sincerely_. _But I can prove my claim, if that is what you wish_ ,”

“ _Without trying to kill me? Or anyone else_?”

Mircalla accepts her terms with a simple nod and an undeniably earnest, “ _You have my word_ ,”

So, Peggy, with her gun now sitting snugly in her hand despite the lack of protection it offers, settles back in her chair and raises a single, dark brow. “ _Then, what are you waiting for_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just love to torture you guys with cliffhangers, don't I? lol


	7. Compluments & Surprises

Peggy sucks in a deep, steadying breath and lets it out just as slowly, not taking her eyes off the girl before her, the same one who had, not two minutes ago, assumed the form of a great, black panther which was, quite frankly, easily the most surreal experience she’d ever been a party to. (And, as someone who’s been to no less than _seven_ of Howard Stark’s so-called ‘high-class soirees’, that is, indeed, saying something.)

“ _Well, for what its worth, little as that may be, I believe you_ ,” she says at last.

Mircalla blinks once, twice, and then a third time, all in rapid succession. “ _I pray you will not think me ungrateful but, in my experience, most have a different reaction when faced with evidence of my supernatural…affliction_ ,”

Peggy smiles, a warm and, hopefully, comforting thing; she hasn’t had much use for the emotion since the war began and she fears she may be out of practice. “ _You’re not the first vampire I’ve met, Miss_ Karnstein _and, if_ Hitler _has his way, you won’t be the last_ ,” she says and there’s a flinty edge of a threat to her words that makes the newly-revealed vampire smile.

“ _You are…full of surprises, lieutenant_ Carter,” Mircalla says and, if Peggy isn’t mistaken, there’s something like awe in her voice and it tugs at the strings of her heart almost as soundly as the sight of a formerly-scrawny boy from Brooklyn.

“ _I’ll take that as a compliment…Countess_ Karnstein,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the short chapter but I needed to wrap this bit up so we can move on to the rest of the good stuff!


	8. Decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, so sorry for the delay! As a reward for your patience, have two chapthe price of one!

Friends are often found in the most extraordinary of places - this is something Peggy knows from experience - and, she supposes, a bombsite _does_ , indeed, fit the bill. And, despite everything – including herself – that is precisely what Mircalla has become.

Friends are, have always been, in short supply where she’s concerned, especially women friends. Her fellow members of the ‘fairer sex’ have rarely understood her strength, her drive, her determination, and she learned early on that she preferred being alone to being surrounded by endless streams of unsolicited advice that all seemed to boil down to, “Oh, Peggy, how will you ever find a husband if you insist on being so forceful?” “So independent?” “So opinionated?” (Honestly, her list of traits that were ‘all but _assured_ ’ to drive men off at the hundred meter mark was so long and seemed to grow so often that she’d stopped keeping track _long_ before war had broken out.)

But, in the fortnight that’s passed since their initial meeting, wherein she’s spent almost as many hours at the young vampires side as she has on duty, there’s been not one mention of her trying to ‘overstep’. Not one. And it’s like a weight she didn’t know she’s been carrying has lifted off her shoulders because someone understands, no, someone _appreciates_ , all the things about her that are usually viewed as faults.

Perhaps it’s because Mircalla, too, knows what it’s like to be someone ahead of her time. Or, perhaps, it’s simply what people mean when they talk about ‘kindred spirits’. Either way, it’s something she’s never allowed herself to expect and now that she has it…she doesn’t want to let go.

But the list of obstacles between what she wants and what _is_ is, unfortunately, a long one. The most important of which is, of course, the war and her place in it. The S.S.R. is preparing for yet another forward push and she must follow. Her duty, not to mention her career, lies with fighting HYDRA on the frontlines, and she’ll not sacrifice that for anything; she’s worked too hard, for too long, to stop now. And, though Mircalla seems more than willing to accompany her, in whatever capacity she requires, while she reacquaints herself with the world at large, it just isn’t as easy as that.

Because, yes, Peggy believes her when she says she knows nothing of the war in which she’s found herself entrenched and perhaps she shouldn’t, not so easily, at least. But the S.S.R. will need so much more than her gut feeling before signing off on the girls presence. They’ll want, and rightfully expect, concrete evidence of her allegiance, not to mention her _identity_ , things neither of them possess, and her ‘loose’ alibi of having spent the last seventy years underground is, to put it kindly, _unlikely_ to sway them in their favor.

They have options, though; Peggy has made a name for herself during her time in the S.S.R. and has amassed a small army of influential friends and acquaintances. If she pulls the right strings, calls in the right favors, maybe, _maybe_ this can all work out. But it’s a risk, a _big_ one, and if Mircalla proves to be something other than what she seems…the consequences could be dire. At the very least, it would end Peggy’s career. At most…it could end her life.

Is it worth it, risking everything she’s done, everything she _is_ , for the sake of a stranger?

Peggy isn’t sure…and she’s running out of time to decide.


	9. Decisions (Made Easy)

“ _There is no need to worry for me_ ,” Mircalla says suddenly, interrupting her introspection. “ _Thanks to you, in these past days I have learned much of this world, enough that I may get by in it, at least. And, in doing so, you have already shown me more kindness than that to which I have become accustomed; you bear me no obligation_ ,”

“ _I know that_ ,” she says and she does. “ _Truly. It isn’t obligation that fuels my desire to find a place for you_ , Mircalla,”

“ _What, then_?”

“ _Friends…look out for one another_ ,” she says without thinking, only to pull up short when her mind catches up with her mouth. But she can’t deny it; they _are_ friends and that _is_ what compels her to look out for the centuries-old girl.

Mircalla, for her part, is seemingly lost for words. “ _Are we friends_?” she asks, her tone unreadable.

“ _Of course, darling_ ,” Peggy says softly, reaching out to rest a comforting hand on her shoulder, “ _What else could we be_?”

The vampires face is studiously blank but a series of easily discernable emotions flickers across the canvass of her features. “ _It has been a…very long time since last I had a friend_ ,” she says at length.

“ _Seventy years is a long time_ ,” she agrees but Mircalla shakes her head slowly, sadly, her eyes on the stars.

“ _Try two hundred and forty four_ ,”

After that, Peggy finds the decision is, suddenly, much easier to make.


	10. Preperations

Mircalla fidgets noticeably in her chair, her normally milky complexion even paler than usual. “ _And you…you are sure there is no other way_?”

Peggy shakes her head, her expression unquestionably sorrowful. “ _I’m afraid not_ ,”

The vampire sucks in a single, shaky breath and nods, shutting her eyes tight as her fingers dig into the sides of the chair on which she sits. “ _Do it, then. Before I lose my nerve_ ,”

The agent hesitates, her hands shaking almost imperceptibly. “ _I’ll be as gentle as I can_ ,” she says and, after taking a steadying breath, she separates a handful of black silk from the res and begins.

For long minutes, other than the muted sound of the hair settling on the floor, the only thing to be heard is the sharp snick-snick of the scissors.

By the time she’s finished, the floor is more hair than wood and the sight of it makes her heart catch in a way that is _completely_ ridiculous because it’s just _hair_. But she knows that, to Mircalla, a girl born in a society where real and proper ladies simply _didn’t_ cut their hair, it’s so much more. It was why this task, out of all the ones the two of them had had to complete in order to successfully integrate her into the ‘modern’ world, had been left for last.

“ _There_ ,” she says, setting the scissors to the side, “ _It’s done_ ,”

Small hands uncurl from the chair and, if Peggy notices the deep crescents cut left in their wake, she’s kind enough not to mention it.

“ _I want to see_ ,” Mircalla says quietly and, though she doesn’t sound upset, her bottom lip trembles and Peggy finds herself fighting the urge to hug her, of all things.

Which is why, as she makes quick work of gathering the fallen soldiers from the floor, she finds herself offering a kindly, if a tad uncertain, “ _Are you sure? It…well, it might be best to wait until we find someone to touch it up properly_ ,”

“ _No, I…I need to see it now, please_ ,”

And so, Peggy hands her the small compact and watches with barely concealed apprehension as Mircalla’s dark gaze bores into the small mirror as if seeking the meaning of life.

Five minutes of silent staring finds the agent nearly jumping out of her skin when Mircalla looses a delighted little giggle, clutching the mirror to her chest. “M _y god, it is wonderful! Why did I not do this centuries ago_?” she presses a hand to her hair, running her fingers through the now shoulder-length mass and laughs as she stands, all but skipping around the room. “ _It is as if I have had a fur cloak about my shoulders and never realized_!”

Peggy, for her part, can’t help but laugh at her enthusiasm. “ _I take it you like it, then_?”

Mircalla spins to face her, eyes wide and bright and, for a moment, she looks so young and carefree that Peggy has trouble remembering she’s more than ten times her senior. “ _Like it? I love it! Oh, I swear I shall never wear it long again_!”

“ _When you’re far too tired to remember your curlers the night before and are forced to spend the first part of your morning cursing, I’ll be sure to remind you you said so_ ,” she drawls but there’s laughter in her eyes and, honestly, she’s excited at the prospect of spending so much time with the girl as to see her adjust to the world firsthand. Because, yes, that’s been the goal for days on end, but this, standing here, now, it seems like it’s really possible. That they really will be able to pull this off.

The feeling is indescribable and not a little intimidating, and something about her realization must show on her face because Mircalla pauses midstride, tilting her head as she regards her with large, unreadable eyes. “ _Is something wrong_?”

Peggy smiles and shakes her head. “ _Not at all. We just have a lot of work to do before the morning_ ,”

The vampire nods, smile returning full force. “ _Then we had best get started, yes? The war waits for no man. Or woman as the case may be_ ,”

“ _Succinctly put_ ,” she says, taking a seat and waiting for Mircalla to do the same opposite her, “ _Now, let’s review…_ ”


	11. Fighting The Good Fight

**_Location: [Redacted] – Circa January, 1943_ **

It had taken countless wires and the calling in of nearly every favour she could lay claim to but there is no doubt in Peggy’s mind that the time and effort she’d put into securing Mircalla a place within the S.S.R. had been well spent.

In the three months they’ve been together, fighting HYDRA’s forces on the frontlines more often than not, Kaerouac, Mircalla C. (as her ID tags so identify her) has proven herself to be an invaluable asset. A stout companion, a fierce fighter, and easily the truest friend Peggy can ever remember having, Mircalla has more than earned her place around their fires at night, to the point that Colonel Phillips doesn’t even bat an eye when the two women hunker together, exchanging volleys of French and laughter between them.

That had been the right call as well; identifying her as a member of the French resistance – and presenting the various papers she’d managed to scrape together in order to corroborate her story – had been, by far, the most morally gray area of their subterfuge but it had been the most prudent choice at the time. Mircalla’s knowledge of English could be termed ‘spotty’, at best, and her words carried an accent far to German to aid their cause.

But that was then and this was now and, well, had she not been in possession of a firsthand account of her transformation, Peggy would scarcely have been able to equate the shivering girl from that crater with the one that stood at her side. Not with her ease, her glossy, dark hair pinned and curled to perfection and her crisp S.S.R. issued uniform hugging her youthful frame. Now, she looks just like any other woman she might happen across on base and she couldn’t be prouder of her if she tried.

And if she still cries out in her sleep and her steps sometimes falter when the sky is void of stars, well, there are some things that can’t be arranged so easily as a haircut. Besides, after all she’s been though, she can’t be faulted for having demons. Especially not when she fights them so very hard.


	12. Our Nights

**_Location: [Redacted] – Circa February, 1943_ **

The day has been a long one – hunting HYDRA agents often feels like a painfully fruitless venture – and, as has become their custom, they retire to their shared tent for a cup of tea and a chance to catch their breath.

Mircalla is halfway through her surprisingly animated retelling of the book she’d finished just the afternoon when Peggy sits her cup to the side with a quiet sigh of contentment and she stops, a single dark brow quirking upward. “Am I boring you?” she asks teasingly, sipping at her tea with mild interest.

She smiles and shakes her head, “Mmm, not at all; I was just thinking. Your English has improved remarkably in such a short time; it’s, well, rather astounding, really,” she says, “You certainly have a way with language,”

The vampire ducks her head, a modest gesture that hasn’t abandoned her despite no longer having enough hair to hide behind, “I don’t know about that. But I _have_ been practicing; the books you lent me have proven themselves most invaluable in that respect,”

“I’m just glad to have finally found a use for them; lord knows I never have the time to read anymore,”

Mircalla looks down, suddenly fascinated with the dirt floor beneath their feet. “Perhaps, if you spent less time with me…”

She waves her off with a smile. “Nonsense, darling; I wouldn’t trade our nights for the world, you know that,”

Her hands fidget slightly in her lap, a nervous habit that gives her away before she even says a word; this is something she’s been thinking about for a while, thinking hard, too, if the way she avoids Peggy’s eyes are any indication. “I just…I know how busy you are,” she says softly, “You already have one job, Margaret; you don’t need another one,”

“Lucky for me I don’t have one, then,” she says, extending a soft hand to cover Mircalla’s own and silence their nervous fluttering. “You aren’t a _job_ , Mircalla; I don’t spend time with you because I feel like I should. I do so because, believe it or not, I enjoy your company,” she smiles then, a soft, playful thing, and adds, “And it’s _Peggy_ ,”

She shakes her head, a small smile of her own taking up residence on her mouth and, like that, the conversation is put behind them, to no doubt be addressed another day. Perhaps when neither of them are quite so tired. “I offer my most sincere apologies. Again. The lack of formality has proven a most…difficult adjustment to make,”

“I can only imagine,” Peggy says as she reclaims her hand, long fingers resettling themselves around her well-worn teacup with familiar ease, “I think myself something of an adaptable creature but to do what you’ve done, and in such a short time too, it’s quite remarkable. I hope you know that,”

Mircalla ducks her head once more, still unused to such easy praise. “It’s not the first time I’ve had to do so,” she reminds her. Peggy’s often wonders if she does so on purpose, the dropping of hints about her less-than-human nature. As if Mircalla’s just waiting to find the right trigger that will push her away and leave her alone once more…

She clears her mind with a subtle shake of her head; those are thoughts for another time. “But this is different, isn’t it? Not being able to…ease into the change? Having it all thrust upon you?” she winces slightly at her own callousness, “I’m sorry; comparing and contrasting such things probably isn’t an enjoyable experience,”

She offers a one-shouldered shrug that lends itself to a nonchalance it’s obvious she doesn’t feel. “It is not the before and after that pains me, so much, as the….the during,” she admits, her words trailing off into an uneasy silence that seems to bubble and hiss with the force of the words she doesn’t say.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Peggy says after a moment, her tone as kind as it was the day she found her, “But, should you change your mind, my door is always open,”

“Thank you,” she says even as she shifts in place, her eyes moving through the opening of the tent to the sky that stretches above them. “Perhaps, one day, I’ll come inside,”


	13. Strage(ly Comforting)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, so sorry for the delay. But, good news, I started my job this week! Bad news, I work on Saturdays so, from now on, updates will be posted on Mondays (or possibly Fridays if I can't make it on time) which are my two days off. 
> 
> Now, without further ado, enjoy!

**_Location: [Redacted] – Circa July, 1943_ **

Other than her first eighteen years of human luxury – and confinement – Mircalla had spent all of her life on the continent traveling from place to place with _maman_ and her many vampiric siblings.

And yet, in the seventy years she’s been…gone, the world has changed far more than in the one hundred and ninety two preceding it. Automobiles, a charmingly novel idea she had only glimpsed in her time, were now commonplace, parked outside nearly every home and tavern, on every _street corner_. And that was only the start of it.

With the application of indoor plumbing, there was no longer a need for servants, lugging heavy buckets of hearth-warmed water. With the harnessing of electricity, there was no need for candles or drafty fireplaces. With the invention of the telephone, one could call a companion located halfway around the world all but instantaneously. And the books! Oh, so many books, more than she would ne able read in a lifetime, in a _hundred_ lifetimes, and her fingers and eyes all but _itched_ to devour them. But they, too, were different, heavy paper bound in leather and printed with a flourish serials hadn’t been able to capture. The ability to hold an entire book in the palms of ones hands…it was like magic. Better, even, because it was real.

And then there were things for which she had no comparison, things like radios, television, airplanes, zippers! These, and so many things like them, were so far removed from 1872 – and, contrary wise, so commonplace in 1945 – that she can’t help feeling a little left behind, a little…overwhelmed by it all. Sometimes the longing for a simpler time, for the luxury of having been eased into this wonderfully chaotic world rather than thrust into it headfirst, is a tangible thing inside her chest, a visceral ache stemming from the center of her un-beating heart and radiating outwards with nary a hint of hesitation or mercy.

Because it isn’t just the _things_ that have changed; it’s the people too. Countries have merged and shifted and split apart, governments have fallen (her surprise that, of all those she’d known, it’s the British Empire that remains the most familiar is something she decided, long ago, to _never_ tell Peggy), and bloody wars have been waged. Great wars that made the earth tremble and the heavens weep fire and smoke.

She tries not to focus on such things, there is so much more to see, to learn, to experience but, despite her vanity, she hasn’t been naïve for a long time and she can’t deny the existence of war when it’s the very thing responsible for her presence in this new world. A fact which is only too happy to encourage the way her mood vacillates between unparalleled ecstasy and seemingly impenetrable melancholy.

And then…then there’s Peggy.

In the same vein as eyeliner and the silver screen, Margaret Carter is an extraordinary something for which she has no equivalent. She’s selfless and brave and wholly unlike any person, but especially any _woman_ , Mircalla has ever met before.

And while she’s known her only a few months, an admittedly short amount of time even by mortal standards, it’s the simple luxury of calling her _friend_ that, more often than not, provides her the strength she needs to overcome whatever darkened mood has taken hold.

It’s strange to think such a little thing has such power over her.

Strange and strangely comforting in equal measure.


	14. Until It's Over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, short though it may be, contains references to actual experiments performed by the Nazi party during WWII. They aren't particularly graphic references but, still, due to the gravity of them, I felt it best to offer up a little disclaimer.

Peggy has seen her share of horrors since the war began. She has seen things that would have broken lesser men and she’s seen those same men break. She’s seen bloody massacres and cold, dark rooms filled with files that make those carnage-soaked battlefields look downright comforting in comparison.

But, as their unit throws itself full-force into seizing everything and everyone HYDRA, she finds herself forced to admit that she, like everyone else, is unprepared for the things they find.

An entire series of secret bunkers dedicated to researching nothing but the effects of repeated resuscitation. The number of times a bone can be broken and still heal. The effectiveness of mustard gas, incendiary bombs, sulfonamide, weapon zed malaria. Sterilization. Immunization. Experiments on children, twins, pregnant women, homosexuals…God, the horrors these people had experienced firsthand put everything Peggy had seen to shame.

That there were people who can do these things, who can be so callous and so cruel, is something she cannot understand, something she doesn’t _want_ to understand. She thinks, sometimes, that even trying to hard might drive her mad.

These thoughts stand at the root of her bad days, the ones where she wants to walk away, when the urge to say to _hell_ with her career and flat out _run_ back to the comfortable, _acceptable_ life she’s never really wanted. But then she stops thinking about the one’s they couldn’t help and starts thinking about the people she’s helped save, of the looks on their faces when they come in, when they tell them they’re _safe_ , and she knows she can’t quit.

Not until HYDRA falls and Hitler’s buried in a shallow, unmarked grave.

Not until they’re finished.

Not until it’s over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would like more information about any of the experiments, [this](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nazi_human_experimentation#Experiments_on_twins) is a good starting point.


	15. A Reason To Fight

War is not a concept with which Mircalla is unfamiliar.

She could still remember the violence that had swept her native Austria when they rose up alongside the Holy Roman Empire to counter the influence of France’s Sun King. But the fighting itself, had seemed subdued and so very far away from the grand parties she had with _maman_ \- oh, but how she worshipped her then – and if she was not worried, why should she be?

But this…never, not once in her exceptionally long life, has she seen war like _this_.

Craters ripped from the earth by bombs, like canon fire but louder, harsher, leaving her ears ringing for days. Planes that bent the very sky to the whims of mankind. Men ripped apart by something called a machine gun. It was kill or be killed, destroy of be destroyed, and it reminded her more of the vampiric battles she’d been in than of any human ones. But while she and her brothers and sisters had swept aside other covens at _maman_ ’s orders, these men followed a monster of a different kind. A man they called Hitler who committed atrocities without so much as a glimmer of hesitation or remorse.

The more Peggy told her and she herself learned, the more he reminded her of _maman_. The charisma, the confidence, the manipulation, the cruelty…it was all a little too familiar. She’d been very much like these soldiers, these nazis, blindly following the orders of someone who just seemed so _sure_ , so in control, that even the thought of defying them never bothered to cross your mind. Why would it, when their leadership, their victory, seemed so inevitable? Honestly, if it hadn’t been for…well, suffice it to say, there was a good chance she would never have rebelled herself. Not without something, someone, to show her there was another way.

She wanted to be that someone. For once, she wasn’t to be a force for good, for _right_ , instead of just another tool of evil. And, not that her friendship with Peggy wasn’t reason enough to devote herself to the cause, but having someone more personal, more _hers_ made it easier, more…worthwhile somehow.

Because war, in and of itself, is not new to her…but having a _reason_ to fight one is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who thinks Carmilla viewing herself as similar to the Nazi's as too harsh, I urge you to remember how harshly she views her past actions and herself.


	16. Visitors Cometh

**_Location: [Redacted] – Circa Late October, 1943_ **

The hours late and the camp is thick with sleep when Peggy’s voice rings clear in the silence of the tent, “Oh, bollocks, I almost forgot,”

Blinking erself awake at the sound of her companions voice, Mircalla looks over at her bunkmate, “Wassit?” she slurs, her voice thick with sleep. These days, it doesn’t take more than a moment for her to nod off at the end of what has been, undoubtedly, yet another in a series of impossibly long days.

“Some people I very much want you to meet are coming to the camp tomorrow,”

“Is it Steve?” she asks, so excited by the idea of meeting her dear friend’s beau that she sits up in bed, turning to face the other woman with uncharacteristic eagerness, “Is he finally coming?”

“No,” she says, and Mircalla doesn’t have to be in the possession of supernatural senses to detect the note of disappointment in the word, “But you’re on the right track,”

Dark eyes go wide even as her jaw drops. “Not the Howling Commandos?”

She nods. “The very same,”

“But I…” she trails off, a sudden bout of nerves making her tongue swell, “Are you sure I’m ready? I mean, I know how they’re some of the people you had to ask for help with…me,” she swallows, hard, “What if they meet me and…and they don’t think I’m worth the effort?”

Peggy sits up in the darkness and, though Mircalla expects it, she makes no move to turn on the light. Perhaps because she knows the vampire had no need of such things to read her expression?

“Mircalla,” she begins, her voice as kind as she’d ever heard it, “You are _more_ than ready for this. As for finding you worthy…trust me when I say these men aren’t the type to judge you based off of anything more, or less, than you give them. You’ve more than proven yourself as a useful part of this unit; they’ll see that and appreciate you for it,”

Despite the distant knowledge that Peggy’s human senses wouldn’t be able to detect the motion, she still finds herself nodding. “Well…thanks for the warning, at least,” she says as she lays back down, her mind whirling with a combination of nerves and excitement.

“I’m not going to wake up and find you’ve run off in the middle of the night, am I?” Peggy asks as she, too, returns to her bed. And, though her tone is mostly teasing in nature, there’s a note of worry there that makes Mircalla feel more cared about than she’s sure she has any right to be.

“No worries, Carter,” she says, closing her eyes, “I’ll be here in the morning,”


	17. Arrival

While the nature of their visit stubbornly remained something of a mystery – Peggy could be awfully closemouthed when it suited her - the Howling Commandos swept into camp with all the fanfare that Mircalla had been told to expect. Still, it’s one thing to hear about their jocularity and another to see the usually stoic Peggy Carter sporting a grin that stretches from ear-to-ear.

But beneath the smiles and bawdy jokes, they are a grim bunch and, as she watches them, the stories of their exploits echo in her ears like thunder. The men who stand before her are ordinary mortals who, through no fault of their own, have found themselves in extraordinary circumstances. Who have found themselves walking beside gods. (Mircalla has still not met Steve Rogers but, from the things she’s heard, surely he can be compared to nothing less.)

One of the men, Dum Dum Dugan himself if the bowler hat is any indication, steps forward, regarding Peggy with unflinching carefulness.

Halfway through his assessment, the agent crosses her arms and arches a delicate brow. “I hear pictures last longer, Dugan,” she drawls and there’s a hint of steel beneath the playfulness. Like herself, Peggy is always quick to remind others, especially men, that she is as fierce as they come.

Dugan, to his credit, doesn’t halt his appraisal, not until he’s accomplished whatever goal he had in mind. “Sorry ‘bout that, Pegs,” he says, tipping his hat, “But I promised the Cap I’d make sure you’re tiptop,”

“You could’ve asked,” she points out, though a small smile tugs at the side of her mouth at the mention of her Captain.

Dugan crosses his arms, unconvinced. “And _you_ coulda lied,”

She laughed then, what little tension there was draining from her small frame. “Fair enough,” she says, “Now, do I get to know why you boy are in town or should I just close my eyes and pretend I never saw you?”

“Not this time, Peg,” he says, “This time, you’re comin’ along,”

“I am?” she asks, clearly surprised. She isn’t the only one; Mircalla feels like someone just dumped a bucket of icy water over her shoulders. Peggy couldn’t go; she just…she couldn’t. Not without her, at least. They were a team. “Phillips didn’t say-”

“He doesn’t know,” he says with a shrug, “Not yet. But we could use the backup,”

They look at each other for a lingering moment, one that Mircalla itches to understand the nuances of, before Peggy nods. “I’ll get my things,” she says and, when she turns only to find her standing there, she stops short, her expression suddenly thoughtful.

She doesn’t know what the agent’s looking at, or what she’s looking _for_ , but she stares back all the same, silently willing her to see it. _Take me with you._ She wants to say. _Please, Carter, let me help._

Peggy takes in a slow, considering breath. “Are you sure?” she asks and, for a moment, Mircalla wonders if she really did ask her question aloud.

Either way, she nods. “I can do this,” she says and, for all her years on this earth, she doesn’t think she’s ever had so much faith in herself. Because she knows, in a deep, unexplainable way, that if Peggy needs her, she’ll deliver nothing but the best. It’s what the woman expects and, more than that, it’s what she deserves.

From the corner of her eye she watches as one of the men, Mircalla isn’t sure which name aligns with which face, leans towards Dugan and whispers something that turns his face grim even as he nods. “Peggy? Not to rush ya, but we’re on a bit of a tight schedule here,”

“Dugan, this is Mircalla Kaerouac,” she says in lieu of an answer, her eyes still locked on her face, “She’s coming with us,”

 _I won’t let you down._ She says silently, the words all but bleeding out of her skin.

Cherry-painted lips curl into a soft smile. _I know._

“That’s great, Peg,gy,” he says automatically, only to do a double take as if it’s the first time he’s noticed her standing there. If she wasn’t still flying high on the feeling of having Carter’s trust, she would have been offended. “Uh…Peg? You sure about this?”

She looks away then, turning to face him over her shoulder “Yes,” she says, “I suppose we _could_ stand here arguing about it but I understand we’re on something of a schedule and I’d hate to delay us,”

He frowns, mustache drooping, but nods all the same. “Alright, Peg, but she’s _your_ responsibility,”

“She always is,” she says even as she gestures for her to join her for the short journey back to their shared tent.

It’s not until they get there and start packing that Mircalla feels doubt starting to creep in and, even as she stands over her half-packed duffle she turns to Peggy, mouth open and excuses waiting, only to find the other woman staring at her, a strangely unreadable expression on her face.

“I won’t make you go,” she says after a moment, “And I won’t ask you to stay. It’s your decision,”

How many choices has she ever really had? She wonders as Peggy’s words wash over her. How few have really _been_ choices and not just traps concealed beneath promises and pretty words? How very little of her exceptionally long life has she chosen? The realization makes her resolve harden and, when she meets the other woman’s eyes, her mind is already made.

“Well, I can’t let my _maîtresse_ go off into certain danger on her own, can I?” she asks, offering her a smile, “What kind of _protégé_ would I be?”

Peggy laughs but her expression grows serious soon after. “The very _smart_ kind,” she says, “This will undoubtedly be dangerous. I don’t want our relationship to put you in harm’s way,”

“Carter, I can handle myself,” she says, though the worry warms her long-dead heart, “Remember, I’m not nearly as fragile as I look,”

She looks at her for what feels like a long time before she sighs in a way that feels like giving consent. “If you’re sure,” she says and Mircalla nods, “Then we’d better get moving. If I know Dugan, he’s probably close to worrying that mustache right off his lip about how he can get us out of this tent without having to step inside,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally going to have the entire Howling Commando's section as one chapter but, well, I can't torture you all with a week in between updates then, can I? lol
> 
> Actually, the reason it isn't all together is because I have a new baby nephew (yay!) and i didn't have quite as much time to write as I usually wound. So, yeah, the Howling Commando's cameo will stretch over next weeks update (and possibly the one after that, if goes over a certain length).
> 
>  
> 
> **Oh and those names, maîtresse and protégé? You might want to remember those...**


	18. Howling In The Dark (Preview)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad news, everyone. Because of some very unfortunate and totally unforeseen circumstances, I won't be able to post a new chapter today. I know, I know, I ate it too but I'd rather wait and post a chapter worth reading than hand you the lackluster efforts I have right now.  
> To make up for this little delay, next Monday's chapter will be double the length of my recent posts and won't leave you hanging off a cliff! And, to hold you over until then, here's a little preview of the chapter to come.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and for sticking with me on this roller-coaster ride. You have no idea how much it means to me.

Mircalla throws herself flat as a barrage of bullets rip the air where her head had been apart. Cursing under her breath, she rises to her knees and wipes at the grime on her face. Her body is slick with sweat and the thick, clinging mud of the battlefield and it’s getting harder and harder to remind herself that the darkness of the night isn’t the same as that of the coffin.

And the morning started out so _well_ …


	19. Howling In The Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short delay; I just wanted it to be worth the wait.   
> Here's hoping it was!

Mircalla throws herself flat as a barrage of bullets rip the air where her head had been apart. Cursing under her breath in puffs of violent German she almost hopes the HYDRA agents can hear, she rises to her knees and wipes at the grime on her face. Her body is slick with sweat and the thick, clinging mud of the battlefield and it’s getting harder and harder to remind herself that the darkness of the night isn’t the same as that of the coffin.

And, really, this mission had started out so _well_ …

*About 37 Hours Ago*

The ride from camp is a strange one. The roughness of the terrain, and the way it causes not only their equipment but also the inhabitants themselves bounce around, makes conversation difficult but Mircalla doubts anything she could add would be welcome anyway. None of the men have done anything that could, strictly speaking, be considered ‘rude’ but it isn’t hard to interpret the nuances of their interactions with her. She would think it solely due to her sex if not for the way they are with Peggy; it’s clear that the agent has earned their respect, their friendship, and a part of her envies that ease, that sense of…camaraderie. Being the odd man out is an awkward place to be and, try though she might, she can’t _quite_ ignore the feeling that she is neither wanted, nor needed, here.

So the countless minutes, and kilometers, pass, for her at least, mostly in silence. Peggy’s presence, alone, acts as a balm to the brusqueness of the Commandos but when the truck finally stops and they start filing out, she’s sure her relief shows on her face.

“Quick and quiet,” she hears Dugan say as she drops from the back of the truck, her boots crunching so loudly on the foliage underfoot that she winces internally. She’s supposed to act like a human so she cannot be truly silent, not like her kind can be, but noises like that are not acceptable in a warzone, “No mistakes,” she feels his eyes linger as he glances in her direction but pretends not to notice, “And watch out for the girl,” he adds in a whisper.

One of the men, she thinks it might be Morita, rolls his eyes. “We ain’t a knittin’ circle, Dugam. Ya never should’ve-”

“Peggy went though and awful lotta trouble to keep that girl,” he says, cutting him off, “That means she’s got something special,”

“I know what she’s got,” another says, one with black hair and laughing eyes. She thinks it’s Bucky Barnes. If she’s right, then the famed Captain America has _terrible_ taste in friends.

But Dugan, for his part, doesn’t share in his fellows’ amusement. “Ya treat that girl with the same respect ya’d give Carter or there’ll be hell to pay, ya here me?”

Instantly, the men sober up, nodding in unison like the specialized taskforce they supposedly are. Frankly, she was beginning to have her doubts regarding their competence. All except for Dugan. His fondness for nicknames may be a tad inane but he’s a fine man, if rumors true, and she wants to show him that she’s worth the trouble Peggy went through to ‘keep her’. Truth be told, she wants to show them all.

But as they start out, jackets zipped to the chin to try and keep out the cold and guns loaded, she finders herself doubting that’s even possible, with the way she’s unceremoniously shuffled into the middle of the group, unarmed but for the pistol Peggy had given her only days before, and all but totally ignored as they begin their trek to who-knows-where.

The details of their mission are murky, unclear, and she dares not ask any of the men, or even Peggy, for clarification, for fear they’ll think her unable to rise to the occasion. The men doubt her worth already and she’s unwilling to offer them more ammunition against her. That they’re likely to face HYDRA agents, hence the firepower they all carry, is enough for her to ignore the waves of mistrust the men send her way and train her preternatural senses on the woods surrounding them. The sun is still high but it will set all too soon and she doesn’t relish the thought of being caught here in the dark.

As it turns out, she needn’t have worried; they spend only an hour or two in the woods before the trees fall away to open fields that provide their own dangers. Razor wire, hidden beneath the tall grasses, and mines that could reduce even the hardiest of men to nothing more than a handful of bloodied pieces are avoided at all costs and the growing sense of danger is more than enough to keep Mircalla focused.

It’s minutes and hours later that they make camp for the night, the men dividing the shifts between themselves and Peggy with little comment – it seems that Mircalla’s lack of involvement is expected as well as assumed – and it isn’t long before the vampire finds herself alone in their small tent, unable to sleep without the comforting sound of Peggy’s breathing beside her.

She can hear her just outside her canvas barrier, Peggy and Dugan and who knows who else as they whisper mission-related details back and forth but she pays the words no mind, focusing her attention solely on the sound of Carter’s voice. It’s oddly soothing, listening to the way her words ebb and flow like the tides, and it isn’t long before she feels herself drifting off.

Her dreams, though, are not half so peaceful; barely an hour passes before she wakes, sitting bolt upright with a scream dying in the back of her throat.

She stays that way until Peggy comes to wake her in the morning.

*About 11 Hours Ago*

Mircalla knows they’ve reached their destination long before the rest of their party; she can smell it, the lingering scent of death, she can all but taste the rotting on the morning wind. The strength of it nearly makes her gag, her already pale cheeks going paler still as she fights the urge to vomit. The vampire is no stranger to violence, to death itself, but even she is not immune to the horrors of this war, as her few months of experience has already seen fit to remind her.

The men notice nothing but Peggy is by her side in an instant, her face the picture of concern. “Are you alright?”

“We’re heading the wrong way,” she chokes out, “Whatever you’re looking for, it isn’t north. It’s east,”

Peggy’s brow furrows, gaze questioning, “You’re sure?”

She nods. “I can smell it,” she says and she’s grateful when the other woman doesn’t ask her to explain any further. Of course, given the general conditions of the other HYDRA bases they’ve raided over the past few months, she probably doesn’t need too.

“I’ll tell the others,”

“Tell them what?” she scoffs, “Even if I _had_ proof, they wouldn’t trust it. Not from me,”

Peggy’s frown deepened but she didn’t argue; she, too, had noticed the way the men treat her. “I’ll figure something out,” she says, “In the meantime, darling, I suggest you take shallower breaths; you’re looking rather peaky,”

Mircalla musters up a weak smile at the teasing but not much else. And as their group angles itself more firmly _towards_ the beacon of death, she is forced to remind herself that that is exactly where she _wants_ to go.

*About 6 Hours Ago*

It’s a bunker of some sort, abandoned by the look – and smell – of it, made of shapeless gray stone and surrounded by ominous steel and wire fences that send a chill down even Mircalla’s spine. The places reeks of death and violence and her stomach turns more forcibly with every step. She does not want to linger here, a feeling she knows is shared between every member of their team.

Still, from the whispers she’s sure the men don’t know she can hear, she’s managed to gather that this is, in fact, their destination: a recently abandoned HYDRA base belonging to men under the direct supervision of someone called the Red Skull. The name is one with which she is distinctly familiar, having heard of Peggy’s more personal adventures involving the evil man and his forces, and it does little to ease the knot of tension that’s been building from the moment they left camp.

They divide into two teams – one led by Dugan, the other Barnes – and Mircalla finds herself watching, helpless, as Peggy heads in the opposite direction. Barnes keeps his word, though, and doesn’t treat her with any disrespect; of course, he doesn’t exactly treat her with any respect, either. He’d have to acknowledge her presence for that.

Time moves quickly while they’re indoors; there are so many rooms to check, file cabinets to rifle through, doors to kick down. There are more than a few rooms they are forced to skirt around, the stench of death too much even for her human companions to stomach, and she does not relish the one who’s job it will be to clean them out.

Her squad was meant only to clear and survey but it is Carter and Duugan’s job to retrieve, which is why when their groups converge once more, each member of the designated ‘alpha’ squadron carry duffle bags no doubt full of files and samples. A flurry of words, things like ‘dangerous’ and ‘top priority’, are exchanged before they decide to move out immediately rather than wait for the second team that is, apparently, supposed to meet them to help secure the site. The rest of the base will have to wait; the data they have now is too important to risk on delay.

So they move out, two by two into the open, when Mircalla catches a flicker f moonlight on metal and shoves Peggy to the ground. “Ambush!” she cries, just as the first rounds split the quiet of the night.

*Present*

A smattering of gunfire rips her out of memory and she groans as she rises onto her knees once more, not even bothering to try and wipe the grime off her skin. There’s no use, really, not when the next volley will send her careening back into the dirt like the frightened kitten she’s never really been. But Peggy had been clear; she was not to show the Commandos what she was, what she could do. _“Your mission is to maintain your cover,”_ she’d said, _“Leave the rest to us.”_

But keeping that in mind has only gotten harder and harder since she lost Peggy; the lieutenant, along with what remains of the Howling Commandos, are pinned down, maybe a hundred meters from her current position, and she’d already be at their side if there was _any_ way a human could survive the trip.

Besides, even if she _did_ get over there, what help would she be? Over there, she was limited by their perceptions of what a girl of her age and size could do. But out _here_ …

She blinks, the wheels of her mind set to whirling. Over there, she was powerless, bound by the limitations of man and the promise she’d made Peggy. But out _here_? Out here, she could do anything After all, what were bullets and mortar to her besides a minor annoyance, a little pain? And what was a little pain, if it meant saving the life of her friend?

Grimly, she pushes herself up onto her knees and lets out a slow breath as she eases imaginary kinks from her muscles. It’s d been a long time since she last killed someone and far longer since she’s done so purposefully. But if it would save Peggy and her friends, well, what was a little more red in her ledger?

She starts with the men on the farthest perimeter and works her way in, a sound strategy that served her well in a time long since passed. HYDRA’s agents are well trained, some of them have even had the dangerous privilege of working with her kind before, but even they stand no chance against her. She’s just too fast, too strong, there one minute and gone the next, leaving nothing to mark her presence but men with twisted necks and bulging eyes. She is like Death itself and there’s a part of her, no matter how small, that revels in the chaos she can cause with nothing more than the flick of a wrist.

There’s a moment between kills where the darkness calls and she answers, exultant and bloodthirsty, and this, alone, will haunt her for many nights to come, she’s sure. Oh yes, the sound of that silent cry will echo in her mind as surely as the chorus of bones she’s cracked beneath her fingers.

And then, almost suddenly, she realizes the battlefield is silent around her, that the fighting is done, and she is left standing, victorious. The sudden, an _entirely_ inappropriate, urge to laugh threatens to overwhelm her and she only _just_ manages to choke it down as she turns toward the trench that houses her companions. “Peggy?” she calls as she nears, slightly unsure as the sound of loading guns meets her ears. “Peggy, are you alright?”

She receives no answer and she frowns into the darkness for long minutes before it hits her. _They must think this is a trap._ She realizes, putting slightly more effort into making noise as she resumes her approach. _They think I’ve been captured and used as bait._

Choosing practicality over pointless emotion, Mircalla ignores the lingering sense of offense at the idea and clears her throat. “Peggy?” she tries again, “ _It’s only me, maîtresse_ ,” she says, “ _They are all dead, I promise you_ ,”

A shuffle of bodies and a volley of whispers, some more forceful than others, greets her ears before she hears the one voice she’d been listening for. “Mircalla, I need you to take another five steps forward. No more, no less,”

It’s an odd request but one she doesn’t dare refuse, not when she knows how many weapons the Commandos have in that hole. They won’t kill her, she knows, but they _would_ kill Mircalla Kaerouac, a persona she has not yet finished with. So, counting her steps with uncommon care, she finds herself standing at the lip of the trench and fixes at her allies with a nervous grin that’s only half pretend.

“Did I miscount?” she asks when the men make no move to lower their weapons and the question startles a laugh out of a few of them, easing the tension, if just a little, and she’s grateful for it.

As a group, the Commandos begin to exit cover, pulling themselves out of the dirt with an ease that speaks of experience.

Dugan is, of course, the first one to stand on the higher ground, his signature shotgun still held firmly in his hands. “Did they retreat?” he asks, peering into the darkness around them.

Mircalla is grateful for this darkness, now, as it conceals the gruesomeness of the rival agents’ last moments. To put it lightly, she is…unsure how she would explain such violent details. “No,” she says, offering her hand to Peggy and, despite the blood coating her palm, the other woman doesn’t hesitate to take it, “They’re dead,”

The men exchange glances and she pretends not to see the worried look Carter sends her way. “How?” Dugan’s voice holds suspicion enough to make the vampire turn away, busying herself with wiping the dirt off her face. If she leaves blood in its place, well, it’d hardly the first time her skin has borne the stain.

But before he can ask again, Peggy’s there, stepping between them and resting her hands on the pseudo-younger woman’s shoulders. “Does it matter, gentlemen?” she asks, “I should think all that matters is that they’re gone; we should take advantage of the opportunity and get the bally hell out of here while we can,”

Happy Sam shrugs his shoulders. “I’m with Carter on this one; let’s get outta here,”

Dugan gives Mircalla a long, measuring look, before he nods. “Yeah. Let’s go,” he says, turning to leave. He takes one step, just one, and that’s when she hears it, that painfully quiet metallic hitch that signals a mine arming.

She doesn’t think; she just acts. With speed and strength on her side, she grabs Dugan and flings him back towards the others just as the mine explodes, sending her and only her flying.

The darkness catches her long before the ground does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really DO like cliffhangers, don't i? lol


End file.
